


Sex for Science

by Chekhov



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic!Asexual!Sherlock, Asexual, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, M/M, Other, humor in sex, platonic, qpp, qpr, sexual escapades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhov/pseuds/Chekhov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Have sex with me."<br/>It was not the most romantic proposition, that was certain, but then, John Watson had learned what to expect and what not to expect under Sherlock circumstances.<br/>What he did not expect, however, was to find himself on a marathon around London, struggling to track down his room-mate in time to figure out just WHAT the Consulting Four-Year-Old had schemed up this time, and WHY in the world he was suddenly interested in looking for a sexual partner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sex for Science

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a warning: If you're looking for cuddling, smut, or, really, anything besides humor via sex and a few awkward situations, you're probably in the wrong place.

“Have sex with me.”

It was not the most romantic proposition, that was certain, but then, John Watson had learned what to expect and what not to expect under Sherlock circumstances. Based on previous experience, he did not expect any romance, so that was not surprising.

But the suggestion itself – or rather, the command, as it were – came as a complete sort of… surprise.

“Excuse me?”

That was what he answered, immediately after looking up from his computer and measuring the Consulting Detective with a glance meant to determine the amount of common sense to be expected from his room-mate at this precise moment. 

Sherlock appeared completely composed, standing neatly with his hands behind his back, his shirt unbuttoned to one button, his phone in his left pocket, a stray dark curl in front of his right eye. 

“I said,” he said, “have sex with me.”

John looked at his laptop, and then back at Sherlock, then back at the laptop, and then back at Sherlock once more. 

“Uh,” he replied eloquently, “no thanks,” and then went back to his blog. 

Immediately, as if the response had been somehow unexpected, the Detective’s features were darkened by a tiny frown. “Why not?”

Feeling for all the world like a parent explaining to his child for the tenth time that the sky was blue, John looked up again and cleared his throat. “Well, for one thing, your flirting is bloody awful…”

“Have sex with me please?” tried Sherlock immediately.

John gifted him a skeptical stare. “…and for another thing,” he continued, pretending that he had not been interrupted. “I’m not interested. Not in sex with you, not in whatever experiment you’ve thought of putting me through this time.”

“Why would you possibly think it’s an experiment?” Sherlock asked, attempting to go for the expression of the greatly offended, but ending up instead with mildly frustrated and quizzical. 

“Because I’m talking to you,” John replied. “And I know you – know you well enough to know that the only reason you would possibly want to have sex with anyone would be for a pleasure of a completely different kind – the stuff that actually gets you off.”

“Stuff like what?” Sherlock tilted his head to the right slightly, fascinated now.

“Like crimes, an unsolved mystery, murder, some evidence you can’t figure out…” Watson supplied.

“I’m not going to murder you during sex, John,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes, as if the idea was ludicrous. 

“Of course not, but I’m fairly certain that you wouldn’t be sexing me during sex, either. Because I somehow doubt you know how this sex thing works.”

“I have eyes, and I know how to read, John, so that’s really quite an unfair deduction,” Sherlock said, and this time, the expression of offence was genuine, with a sprinkle of annoyance on top. 

“As if you’ve ever been fair,” Watson snorted, and then placed his hands on the keyboard again. “Now if you don’t mind, since I’ve refused to be a part of whatever experiment you’ve been trying to set up, please go and find yourself another participant. Preferably a willing one.”

A soft silence blanketed the room. For a while, John’s clacking away on the keyboard filled up the empty air. After a minute, however, even the snarkiest typed remarks about last week’s case grew weak and cuddly next to the eerie lack of retort in the room. Although John stared stubbornly at his screen, in his mind, he was befuddled. For Sherlock to not have the last word was rather… uncanny. Perhaps more than that. It was…

…surprising?

He looked up again, only to find that Sherlock was still there, still standing, still staring at him. 

“What?” John asked quietly.

“I’ve tried.” Sherlock’s voice was nonchalant, not at all suffering any embarrassment from continuing their conversation with a bit of a pause. “To find willing participants, I mean.”

“Ohhh,” John moaned, not knowing whether it was a vocalization of utter terror, utter fascination, or something else completely. Maybe utter Schadenfreude. If there was such a thing. “You’re… serious? You tried to…”

Sherlock’s level gaze faltered for a bit and he looked at the skull on the fireplace hopefully, as if looking for a rescue, but then restored his stare to dignity again.

“…You tried to have sex with people. Asked them…? Like that? Just went up to them and asked them?” Watson mumbled in disbelief. “Who?”

“Well I didn’t just ask,” Sherlock defended. “I called them. In alphabetical order.” The man’s lips tightened in frustration. “I tried to arrange them into a category of least-likely to most-likely but the scale turned out to be too vague to judge properly so I trashed the idea and just went down the list.”

“Wait, what list?” John demanded, squinting up at him in disbelief. 

“Your mobile contact list,” Sherlock replied. Then, as if sensing that John’s opened-mouth gape was a bad omen, turned on his heel and marched a little further away, to a safer distance. 

“My mob—… You called my ex-girlfriends and you asked them to have a shag with you?!”

“Well no,” Sherlock disagreed. “Actually, my exact script was ‘Good day, I am sure that in your narrow-minded view of the events surrounding you, you have failed to notice it, but I have come to the observation that if the event of sexual interaction were to occur between us, the results would be favorable to both parties.’”

John slapped his hand to his temple, his mouth parting in an unbidden, uncontrollable grin of disbelief. Then, deciding to be the adult, he hurriedly straightened up and forced the laughter back into his throat. It should not have been that funny, perhaps, but for some reason he felt no concern for the ex-girlfriends involved. “Is that…” He cleared his throat again and tried to reduce the magnitude of his smile. “…is that all?”

“I intended to promise them the choice of a box of chocolates, a paid-for dinner or a trip to the movie theatre but for some reason none of them actually stayed on the line for that long.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Neither can I,” Sherlock mumbled, looking at John carefully, clearly more truthful about what he was saying. He looked legitimately befuddled. “I did intend to provide all three if they were necessary to set up the mood for the sexual interaction due to follow.”

“You mean to tell me that,” John began, tipping his hand against his cheek, “you would actually go to dinner with a girl? Talk to her for the entire hour? Actually interact with a female socially, to get her to have sex with you?”

The detective’s facial tilt increased by approximately 30 degrees and his eyes narrowed. “With her? No. I promised a dinner for her, not for me.”

“So… just the girl. Sitting in the restaurant. Eating alone,” confirmed John.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He lifted his eyes away for a second, to the ceiling, as if re-calculating. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Usually, if you have a dinner with someone before you bed them, you’re supposed to accompany them to the dinner.” Watson resisted a third chuckle during the pause. “That’s kind of… courtesy.” 

“Why?” Sherlock inquired immediately. 

“Why? Because… because you’re going to have sex with them later. You do want to get to know them, don’t you?”

“Well no,” Sherlock muttered.

John sighed and clasped his hands together. He was once again not surprised.

“That’s kind of the point. Sex and conversation aren’t the same. They’re two different things,” continued the detective. 

“If that’s the kind of sex you’re looking for, then you might as well hire a prostitute. Calling all of my ex-girlfriends and bothering them with a request they probably hardly even understood is not going to get you laid.” 

“No, it can’t be a prostitute,” mumbled Sherlock, touching the books on the fireplace absentmindedly. He seemed, all too suddenly, lost in thought again as if the conversation was taking a back seat to his inner works. “Has to be someone I know.”

“And you know my ex-girlfriends? You couldn’t even hardly remember their names.” John snorted. He bit his lip lightly, finally realizing that this was not some joke and that somewhere inside of Sherlock’s clockwork mind, this particular scheme was taking initiative. He had no idea what for, but he knew that to abandon the man on this journey would be probably more disastrous than whatever would occur at the climax.

John Watson winced to himself. Climax. Maybe that was the wrong word to use. If he was going to think about this, he would have to take care to avoid all imagery.

“Look, let’s look at this logically. Before you go about scaring everyone half to death, we should narrow down the theoretical list of people you can… scare half to death.”

“Is a sexual experience really going to be that frightening?” Sherlock asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes just the slightest, and re-adjusting the book stack. 

“With you?” 

“Yes.”

“Then yes,” John replied. “I should think so.”

“Why?” Sherlock finally turned back around, but this time, he looked almost curious. “Judging by the symmetry of my facial structure, taking into account the shape of my mouth, my eyes and the lack of scarring, the well-tuned shape of the condition my body is in… not to mention the fact that I take care to avoid any offensive body odors and keep myself clean-shaven and washed, it would be simple to assume that to the average peer seeking my type of gender, I would be quite attractive.”

“And you’re incredibly humble, let’s not forget that,” John added. “But, as we both know, you are offensively terrible when it comes to dealing with people. So if you want to have a good shag, or any type of shag, really, you’re going to have to be more… or maybe less… maybe just… you’re just going to have to go about this differently. Staring with, maybe, your technique of choosing a mate. Calling all of my ex-girlfriends, most of which, frankly, hate you, is not the best strategy.”

“Well that’s why I asked you,” Sherlock said, as if the result was obvious. “Because you don’t hate me.”

“Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” John said with a tight-lipped smile. “First of all, let’s narrow this down a bit. Do you want a male or a female?”

Sherlock looked at him quizzically, and then his eyes moved off to the side, as if the question was too difficult to process. “Does it make much of a difference?” he asked after a delay.

“There are… differences, yes, Sherlock, boys and girls have different parts.” God forbid he would have to explain this part too. They didn’t train army doctors in this department. Then again, no one was trained to live and deal with Sherlock Holmes, either, so probably he should have had more faith in himself. 

Sherlock dismissed him with the wave of a hand. “I know that,” he said with a hint of offense. “I mean, why does it matter? Sexual intimate relationships can be had by any two or more parties involved. Leaving myself open for all options should greatly increase my chances of the encounter, should it not?” 

After a small gaping session, John leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “Um. Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true. But do you have a preference? When you imagine yourself with one or the other, does it arouse you more or less, for which one?”

Immediately, the man’s mouth formed into a mild grimace of disgust. “Neither…” he admitted quietly. “I’m equally aroused by both parties. That is, not at all. Which is, strictly speaking, still an equal amount of attraction.”

“If that’s the case, then why are you trying to have sex with—” John stopped talking and sighed again, watching the stubborn set of the jaw that was hardening on Sherlock’s expression. “What, are you not going to even tell me?”

Sherlock looked away pointedly.

It was useless now, about as useless as trying to stop a four-year-old from having a tantrum. Consulting Four-Year-Old, that’s what he should have been called, thought John disheartedly to himself. He knew it was a lost cause. He also knew that it was a mistake to get involved.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose in silence and then looked up, staring at the yellow smiley-face painted on their wall. It seemed so ignorant of the disaster blooming in the household. 

“Have you asked Molly?” he said suddenly.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization. “I didn’t think of that!” he admitted. He looked at John again, disturbingly gleeful. “Do you think she’ll agree?”

With a sad laugh, Watson turned himself back to the laptop and shook his head. “Finally,” he said, “a mystery even the Great Sherlock Holmes can’t solve.”

***

Panic only overtook John Watson ten minutes later, when he finally shut his laptop and leaned back in the chair to stretch. At that precise moment, he realized that Sherlock was mysteriously missing from the room. And from the flat. And at that precise moment, it occurred to John Watson that he might have just sent Molly the biggest heartbreak and/or traumatizing experience of her entire life.

“Shit!” he hissed, kicking himself off of the chair and yanking his jacket from the hook. “Watson, you are an ass,” he mumbled to himself, and pushed himself mercilessly down the stairs. After tripping on the last two steps, he elbowed open the front door and sprinted to the corner. 

No cabby would have probably gone fast enough without a gun against their head to urge them on, but at that point, John hadn’t yet considered breaking the law to get to the scene on time. How much effort would it take, he wondered, to coerce Molly? Probably less than a minute. She would stutter, blush, look at all the items within a 180-degree radius, and then she would probably smile weakly and nod and Sherlock would smile too – Sherlock knew what to do. He knew how to control her without even controlling her. He did it without thinking, just acting the way he needed to in order to get his way. Like a spoiled child acting cute to get candy. It wasn’t moral, it was just the fastest way to the goal, and Sherlock only knew that kind of way.

The only question was – why?! Why in the world did Sherlock Holmes suddenly decide to get himself laid?!

John could fathom no immediate answer. Perhaps if he, himself, was Sherlock, he would already know why Sherlock wanted to get himself laid. Maybe the clues were on the breadcrumbs on the sleeves of his shirt. Maybe the dandruff on his shoulders. Maybe the molecules in his shoes. Maybe it was all very simple, really, if they were all to just open their eyes and look. Just observe.

But the only thing that John could currently observe was how bad of a room-mate he was. And how bad of a Sherlock-keeper. And how much Molly would probably hate them both if this actually happened. 

“Excuse me,” he said, leaning forward. “D’y’think you could drive any faster?”

“Busy hour, sir,” the cabby muttered without much empathy from the front. 

“Right,” John muttered, and immediately began to fumble for his wallet, pulling out the closest note he could reach. “Here, keep the change…” 

The voiced protest behind his back as he tumbled out onto the street was lost to him. He sprinted through a shortcut in the alleyway, leaping out and nearly knocking a little old lady off of her feet, in the process greatly angering her dog. The morgue, however, was not too far off. As he ran, he wondered where the happy couple would decide to go on with their copulation. Maybe right there, on the examination table? 

Watson grimaced at the thought and hurriedly tried to rub it from his mind. Mind bleach, why hadn’t they invented mind bleach yet?!

The doors, the stairs – they all seemed to float by too slowly. He didn’t even spare a look at the police officer leaving the lab before shoving open the wide double doors into the workspace, skidding to a stop in front of the table and catching a rack of test-tubes. They fell; he grappled with them barely a foot from the floor and then set them back into their spot again before looking up and catching sight of Molly, standing there, her eyes as wide as platters, looking more than a little perplexed. 

“Hello,” he said in two breaths, and then took a few moments to regain the use of his lungs. 

“Hello,” she echoed timidly. “Everything alright?”

“Has Sherlock been…” pant “…by?”

Molly’s cheeks changed hue for a few seconds and she hurriedly looked down, turning to the left and switching her lab goggles into her other hand. “…yes,” she said quietly. “Yes he has…”

John nodded quietly, attempting to comprehend the situation. His eyes scanned the lab, expecting, perhaps, to find his room-mate de-clothed beside the refrigerator. Instead he saw no one but Molly in the half-lit space. She still looked lost, but he sensed it had to do with more than just the fact that he had caught her by surprise.

“Where’s he now?” he asked, deciding to act normal for the time being. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t read her The Script yet, hadn’t offered her the one free dinner alone. 

“Left,” Molly replied quietly, still avoiding eye-contact. “About five minutes ago…”

“Oh.” Perhaps now was a good time for John to become confused as well. “Did he… say much? Mention anything… odd?”

Molly looked up at him again and for a split second, they seemed to calibrate to the same channel of thought and both knew exactly what the other was thinking about.

“Asked me if I was currently interested in a sexual relationship…” the woman replied, and then looked down, bothering her bottom lip with her teeth lightly. “…with him.”

“Oh, um…” It was exactly what he had expected, except that now that he had confirmed his fear, he was even more confused. “And you said?”

“I… I told him no,” Molly admitted, and when they made eye-contact again, the same shock and surprise reflected from both of them. It seemed that she was as befuddled about the decision as he was. “So he left. Told me to have a good day.” She smiled weakly, unsure if there was a second meaning behind the bidding.

“Oh, you… you didn’t… okay.” John frowned and nodded, trying to look like he was expecting this. “Okay, yes, good. That’s… good… I mean… not that I… not that I care if you two… But he was just acting a little odd and you…” He looked away, aware that he was in danger of sounding like an ass. “So, did he say where he was off to?”

Molly shook her head, her ponytail whipping against her cheek for a moment. She seemed down suddenly, as if her own response had depressed her. 

“Right. Well then. This is… not good.” Setting his hands on his hips, John Watson inspected the lab a second time. 

He had an eerie feeling, a gut instinct that he would not find Sherlock back at the flat if he was to return there now. His Consulting Detective had run off again on some crazy scheme – and if they didn’t act soon, who knew what would happen? What if Sherlock started to bother random people on the streets to copulate with him? Would he get arrested? 

Wait, no, think, John, he told himself, closing his eyes and massaging his temples. What did Sherlock say? Yes, he said… “it has to be someone I know”. Why? Sherlock knew people the same way he knew evidence. They all looked the same to him, unless there was some gain to be had from knowing them. He didn’t spare thoughtless memories dedicated to their names, interests or living status unless they were immediately relevant to the situation. 

The exceptions were few. That considerably narrowed the playing field. 

Irene Adler, perhaps, but she was dead now. Even if Sherlock did believe she was somewhere in America, he wouldn’t waste time looking for her, would he?

“Think, John, think,” he muttered to himself, closing his eyes. 

An image of the consulting detective swam into his mind, the blue eyes muddled with incomprehension for once at John’s question about gender. “Does it make much of a difference?”

Lestrade. 

“Excuse me?” Molly asked, leaning to the side, peering at him.

Realizing that he had said the name out loud, John turned to look at her, unsure about which emotion to feel. “I know where Sherlock went,” he explained quietly, and then tore himself from the spot abruptly. Molly didn’t even try to go after him, which, in John’s opinion, was probably for the best. 

Who knew just how odd this particular encounter was going to be. 

***

Very odd, thought John to himself approximately 8 minutes later, as his hand hovered above the door handle. Very odd indeed.

He couldn’t get himself to do it. He couldn’t just grasp it, couldn’t curl his fingers and push down… release the latch… No, but he had to.

He had to. 

Very odd, he thought to himself once more. Cleared his throat. Leaned back on his heels, looked around and made eye-contact with Sergeant Donovan again, who appeared more than a little grossed out. 

“They’ve been in there for ten minutes, you say,” he confirmed, pointing to the door. 

She tightened her lips and shrugged a little, as if to say ‘well, yeah, but don’t expect me to knock on that door’. Maybe that was his doing. Maybe he had scared her. At this point, he had already decided that his earlier plan of running into the department yelling ‘Has Sherlock asked anyone to have sex with him?!’ had been a bad idea.

Now he was outside of Lestrade’s door, listening to what sounded like muffled speech and/or grunts. Ah – there! A raised voice! Maybe a curse? But then it was quiet again.

“E-excuse me!” he said, his voice breaking in half through the middle. He tried again, with knocking this time. “Excuse… me.”

“Come in.” 

That was unexpected. He looked back at Donovan – she was equally suspicious – and then pushed the door open, mildly terrified of what he would be facing.

He looked up; met Sherlock’s eyes.

“Ah, so nice of you to join us, John,” the Consulting Detective said, licked his finger, and flipped a page in the file. “Have you been talking to Molly, you smell of formaldehyde.”

“Um,” John voiced, and then turned his head to inspect Detective Inspector Lestrade, who was leaning back in his chair with his feet kicked up on the desk against which Sherlock was leaning while he read. “Yes. What are you doing?”

“Lestrade and I have a deal of sorts,” Sherlock replied calmly, as if they were discussing the weather. He flipped to another page, squinted, turned the file 180-degrees and then tossed it back onto the desk. “Dead,” he announced, sounding very bored. “Dead and hidden inside the bathroom wall of the uncle’s summer house in Middlesex. You could try behind the toilet.”

Lestrade picked up the file, opened it back up, and then looked at Sherlock again. “Alright…” he said carefully, pulling out another one. “What about this one?”

“Oh for the love of— You said there were only four!” Sherlock protested. “How many more do you have hidden in there?”

“A few,” Lestrade muttered, and John got the distinct feeling that he was missing some vital piece of information here. “Hey, you were the one that offered!”

“Well I might think of withdrawing my offer if you’re going to exploit my precious time – which, by the way, is a lot more precious, since, unlike you, I do not use it to drink coffee and stare blindly at crimes which could have been solved in five seconds!” Sherlock snapped, moving away from the desk and whirling around to face the Detective.

“Hold up, hold on,” John intervened, his hands flashing up like he was doing air-traffic control. Sherlock, for all the world, looked like an advanced Mach 3 fighter plane. Lestrade, meanwhile, resembled a civilian Boeing. He was huffing a little, even, so maybe his engine was old. “What offer is this, exactly?”

Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at him, and then at each other. 

“He—” Lestrade began.

Sherlock immediately cut through him like melted butter: “He refused my offer of the free dinner, and instead said that I should take a look at his petty file of unsolved cases which I have, in the past, refused to see. For a good reason, mind you! They’re completely worthless on the account of their utter lack myst—”

“Hold up!” John called again, waving his arms now. He directed an accusatory stare at Lestrade. “You agreed to have sex with him for a trade-off on crimes?”

The man, looking entirely not guilty enough for John’s liking, shrugged nonchalantly. “Well… I didn’t think he’d do it, I mean, he didn’t think he was serious, but yeah… wait, is he serious?” The Detective Inspector removed his legs from the desk and sat up a little. John’s shocked expression was certainly doing its part. “I thought he was just overdosed on nicotine again.”

“Might be,” John allowed, glancing at Sherlock, who was glaring at both of them through narrowed eyes. “But he is serious.”

“Of course I’m serious,” Sherlock grit out. He directed his glare at Lestrade. “You thought I was joking? And what previous experience, what statistic, prey tell, allow you to come to that conclusion? It can’t be because I go around cracking jokes all the time – I’m not a comedian.” The disgust in his voice was poorly disguised. “And I’ve upheld my part of the bargain!” 

Lesterade shrunk into his seat, looking taken aback. “That’s… I’m not having sex with you!” he protested.

“Why? It’s not like you’re married – and judging by your track record, your trips to the bar and your trips to dating websites have been equally unsuccessful.”

The older man’s mouth popped open, and then shut again, setting some steel into his jaw. “I ain’t interested in men. I thought you were just bein’ high like the usual – you can’t blame me! Last week you came in here asking everyone to take off their shoes just so you could do a comparison of the dirt samples from—well, you know!” He waved his arms emphatically. “How was I supposed to know?!”

John, who had previously been standing in the background, feeling very much like a man observing a tennis match, shook his head and stepped forward. “Alright, boys,” he said, putting one hand on Sherlock’s chest. “Let’s just… not do this. He said no, Sherlock.”

“He promised,” Sherlock growled. 

“People lie,” Dr. Watson informed, his mouth thinning slightly from the strain it took to keep his flat-mate back. “Lestrade misunderstood. You two have enough communication issues as it is – it would not work out. Let’s not make this into a public spectacle, Sherlock. The last thing you need is the headlines catching wind of this.”

“I wouldn’t tell them that,” Lestrade muttered. ”Weird enough as is.”

“Jolly good,” Watson quipped, and pushed harder. This time, Sherlock did back away a few steps, and then irritably pushed John’s arm aside. 

He glared at Lestrade for a few seconds more and then marched right out of the room, leaving the two alone with the settling atmosphere of hurt hostility to deal with.

“Well,” John sighed, looking back at Lestrade. “That was stupid of you.”

“I thought he was kidding!” Lestrade defended. “I didn’t realize he’d get that angry! When has he ever even said the word ‘sex’ out loud, for pete’s sake! I thought he didn’t know what it is! How would you have reacted!”

“I already reacted,” John pointed out. “He asked me first.”

This brought on a befuddled expression. “And you refused?”

John opened his mouth, closed his mouth and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I refused! What does that even… nevermind!”

“So has he gone out of his mind or what?” 

“Hell if I know…” John looked back at the door. Sherlock was not there, not pacing back and forth, not waiting for him. Sherlock was gone again. “Damnit!” 

Lestrade, meanwhile, had gone back to the files. “Good luck with that one.”

Luck.

Yes, thought John unhappily. Luck was all he had going for him now.

***

The corner – again. The cabby – again. It seemed that repetition had taken over his life at the moment. At any other time, he would have let the relaxing dullness comb him into boredom but this time, dullness was lacking. Instead he was fidgeting as soon as he got into the back seat, and the entire way back to the flat.

Who else, who else?! he demanded from himself.

Mrs. Hudson? No, that didn’t make any sense. He would have asked her first – maybe even before asking John himself. That would be logical, wouldn’t it? And she would get flustered and ask him if he was feeling well, and he would have a polite smile on hand to give her, and steer the conversation away and—

No, John, don’t get distracted, think, he urged. If Sherlock needed something, who would he go to?

When the name first surfaced on the shallows of his mind, he pushed it away irritably. 

No, it couldn’t be. Sherlock would never. There was too much history between them.

But then again…

John tapped out a drumline on his knees, brow furrowing. He recalled Sherlock’s face – stubborn and set on not revealing any clues. He was withholding information, yes, but not merely withholding it; he was hiding it. He was hiding something. Sherlock rarely had a reason to be anything but frank about even the most strange escapades. To most people, yes, personal matters might have been shameful or embarrassing, but Sherlock seemed to view even sex with a casual air of polite disinterest. He had never flinched while discussing it during cases, never shied away from the topic. 

So then why did he do so this time?

Maybe, if things really were bad enough to warrant such a reaction, then it was bad enough to consult Mycroft over.

He pulled out his phone, searched for Myscroft’s number and hit call, pushing it to his ear immediately. One ring. Two rings…

“Come on,” he urged, glancing out the window. “This is important, he’s your brother after all…”

Three rings… Four…

Suddenly, the line bleeped and went dead. Befuddled, John checked his phone, staring at the Dropped Call notification. “What in the…” he began to mutter, nearly ready to retry – right when the screen lit up once more, this time with a text message. 

‘Meet me at the diner. Don’t bother trying to call Mycroft again. - SH’

John put his phone down and looked out the window, watching the trees flashing by. The world still seemed to make sense on the outside, but on the inside… that was a different story. 

He looked forward again and glanced up at the cabbie. “Um… excuse me…? D’you mind turning around?”

***

Sherlock was already at the table when John entered – hands folded in front of his mouth, elbows on the table, legs crossed. His eyes flashed up towards the door, finding his flat-mate with ease, and then he looked down again, not bothering to gesture the other to come over. 

“Are you going to stay put now?” John demanded as he approached. He didn’t bother taking a seat. “I just chased you all over London and—”

“Oh please,” Sherlock muttered with a roll of his eyes, putting his arms down. “There were only two locations, and I daresay they were hardly marathon material. Though I do appreciate you saving me the trouble of chasing you down. I should have known you’d call Mycroft. Surprised you didn’t do it sooner, actually.” Sherlock leaned back as the waitress approached, bringing him a glass of water. “You’re getting a bit slow.”

The doctor’s lips thinned unhappily. “And why, exactly, didn’t you want me to call Mycroft?”

“Who said I didn’t want you to call him?” Sherlock inquired, voice quiet.

“Well the fact that you intercepted the call should have been enough – but since you bothered dragging me all the way out here instead of just back to the flat—”

“The flat is monitored,” Sherlock cut in. 

“I know.”

“You do?” The Consulting Detective looked up, seemed pleasantly surprised. “Maybe not as slow as I thought, then. Sit down. They’re bringing the biscuits soon; I know you like them.”

John remained standing for a few more seconds, although his eyes flipped to the chair opposite of the one Sherlock occupied a few times. “Is this my free dinner?” he inquired, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you going to leave me so I can have it all by myself?”

Instead of biting at the bait, Sherlock checked his watch needlessly. “Too late for dinner. Suppertime, I would say. Now are you going to eat standing?”

Deflating visibly, John pulled out the chair and flopped into it, continuing to stare at Sherlock, attempting to see through yet another poker face. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?” he asked. 

Sherlock waited until they brought the biscuits (and until John hoarded the majority onto his own plate) and then folded his arms over his chest. John noted this quietly while chewing. He didn’t want to interrupt. 

“You’re right in the fact that I didn’t want you to contact Mycroft – but very wrong in the assumption that I would ever come to him with a request of the kind that… well…” Sherlock gestured with one hand irritably. His eyes went towards the ceiling again. Two eye-rolls within three minutes, thought John, this must be annoying him quite a bit. 

“Well he is your brother,” he supplied quietly, picking up another biscuit. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said with a grimace. “And he has, if you were to strain your mind and recall, an exquisite history of collecting my suffering – mining for it, as a matter of fact. Most of his life, I daresay, is devoted to making mine a little more difficult around the edges.” Sherlock leaned forward. “So do you really think,” he laughed bitterly, shaking his head, “really, that I would, even for a second, want him to also make this project even more unpleasant than it already is?”

“What is this project, exactly?” John asked, pausing in mid-chew. He pointed his biscuit at Sherlock. “No, no, don’t make that face.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What face.”

“That stubborn-four-year-old-face.” John set his biscuit down. “You think you’re unreadable – and you are, most of the time. But that face; that’s the face you make when you’re shooting holes in Mrs. Hudson’s walls, that’s the face you make when someone questions your intelligence – seriously, Sherlock, what is this? Just tell me. You’ve scared the shit out of Molly, and Lestrade is probably going to be confused for the next few days, and I’m just glad you didn’t do the same to Mrs. Hudson, although who knows with you – I certainly don’t know!” 

“I didn’t.” Another eyeroll. That was the third one.

“Why are you doing this?” John demanded. “Just tell me. It can’t be because you want to – you’ve never had any interest in sex. I know that isn’t what you hack into my computer for, certainly not to look at porn. So your ‘project’, it can’t be self-motivated, can it?”

“Maybe it is,” Sherlock muttered quietly, fingers on the edge of the glass of water. 

“And maybe you’re just watching us run around like rats in a maze – I think that’s the more likely possibility! Because that’s what you do most of the time, just set everything up the way you need it to be, and damned be the feelings of those involved! But this isn’t like usual, Sherlock, although, mind you, I know you haven’t got a problem with stepping all over people’s feelings like you did back in Baskerville – but bloody hell, sex isn’t something to be messed around with, it isn’t a game!”

Sherlock looked in the other direction, his arms still tightly crossed. “I know,” he ground out.

“Do you?” John demanded. He was the one leaning forward across the table now. Attacking. “Do you, really?”

“Fine – I don’t!”

The answer came so quickly and so suddenly that John slipped on his way to being offended and fell on his ass. All the witty, smart things he was about to fling at his flat-mate were suddenly flying across the mental room in his head, scattering on the floor. 

“Well… that’s… yes?” The doctor cleared his throat and looked around uncomfortably. They were being a little louder than usual. 

Sherlock was glaring at the table now. He let out a slow, hissing breath through his nose and slid the glass across the table, to the other edge. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said quietly. 

John was still scattered. “What?”

“That I don’t know.”

John scratched his head. “Is it a problem?”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock looked up at him.

John pressed his palms together, tilted his head to the side, looked up at the ceiling for a second, and then leaned back in the chair. “Why… would it be?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock’s eyes were piercing.

“Because… you’re not… interested in that?” John attempted. 

“I wasn’t interested in astronomy either,” Sherlock said. His posture remained stone-still. “Didn’t know that the earth went around the sun. Then the knowledge helped me solve the case. Weren’t you the one that glorified your own advice? Learning outside of my spectrum?”

John groaned quietly, rubbing his neck. He felt like a moron. “Well, yes, but no, but yes—but sex isn’t like astronomy! Besides, you know about sex, you just…”

Sherlock looked down at the table again, at the glass. “I have no interest.”

“Yes,” John said, relieved that his theory was, for once, being supported. 

“But that leaves a gap in my knowledge, doesn’t it,” Sherlock muttered. “Mycroft wastes no time reminding me of that. No one does. The virgin – it’s always that. Other monikers aside, that one isn’t bad because it’s insulting… because it’s not. Not directly. But put into perspective, my lack of experience is… well… exactly that. In all other areas, I collect information flawlessly. When I need it, it is on reserve. It is in my mind, with me, a tool. But in situations which are sexual, well… that’s where I come in empty-handed.”

John looked down into his plate of biscuits. He thought he should feel awkward, but he didn’t. Somehow, Sherlock’s morose tone more than made up for the atmosphere of the conversation. “But you’re hardly ever in sexual situations.”

“I’m hardly ever in situations that require me to know the constellations appearing in the sky in the 1600s,” Sherlock replied dryly. “But that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t helpful at the time.”

“No,” John burst out, putting his hands up. “Wait a second. That’s not fair, Sherlock. You’re pushing yourself into a corner here. Just because Mycroft or someone teases you…” He paused. Looked up. Assessed the tightness of the man’s jaw. 

He wasn’t a detective. But he knew signs of the body. He had studied them, after all. And he knew Sherlock. 

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it…” John sighed. “This is about Mycroft. One-upping him.”

“What gives you that idea.” 

“Sherlock, come on. Really?” 

For a second, nothing happened. Sherlock remained stubborn, playing with the glass of water, tipping it this way and that, ignoring the taunt. Then he finally set it down and leaned back in his chair. His arms were crossed again. 

“For a long time, Mycroft was equally… lacking experience,” he began. “At least until college. Until graduation. You know how things are between us now – well, I’ll save you the time for childhood stories and assure you that things were much the same. He was always trying to one-up me. Still is. But one year, he finally managed to get one. A significant other, I mean. And he wasted no time bragging when they finally managed to achieve some form of understanding which granted them their physical aspect of the relationship.”

“So…” John paused. “They… shagged.”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, John, my brother finally managed to achieve sexual intercourse. How he managed, I don’t know. However, after a thorough five-day investigation to exhaust any possibility that his claim was a fraud, I had to admit that he had, indeed, been truthful about his sexual status.”

At this point, John had lost his appetite for his last biscuit and had pushed the plate back towards the middle of the table. “I see… And this is, apparently, the root of all of your suffering? And the reason you’ve been running around after me and Molly and Lestrade?”

Sherlock looked away again. If John hadn’t known better, he would have thought Sherlock was embarrassed. But he probably wasn’t. Angry, more like. 

“Why didn’t you just… You had the chance, after all… you know… when… Irene Adler?” he suggested lightly. 

The detective’s eyes slid back to meet his. “Honestly? Would you consider taking your clothes off around The Woman? The Woman who had three websites filled with bondage paraphernalia and a fourth dedicated to the process of selecting the correct whip for a dominant in a sexual relationship?”

John winced to himself. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “Not really my taste.”

“Nor mine.” Sherlock suddenly seemed a bit more relaxed. He reached over and picked up the biscuit which John had left unattended. “Which is precisely why I set out to locate another participant. One that might make the experience simpler.”

“But Sherlock, if you don’t even want sex, how in the world do you think your partner is going to feel about that? If you’re just forcing yourself to do it for the sake of a stupid childhood rivalry… I mean, bloody hell, you shouldn’t have to prove yourself to anyone, not even Mycroft! What does it matter – why does he care whether or not you get it on with someone or not? If your kind of sex is no sex at all, then there’s nothing wrong with that!”

Sherlock’s lip twitched, nearly pulling into a smile. “That’s very kind of you, John, but if you were to open your eyes and observe, you might find that people don’t always hold the same opinion. And I’m rather tired of it. I figured remedying the problem might be less trouble than having to hear his bloody nonsense the rest of my life – and I plan to survive for quite a while – so unless you have a better suggestion, I think this is really the only way we can fix this annoying issue.”

With a sigh, the doctor set his chin on the heel of his hand and looked over at the window, studying the people crossing the street. An old lady with a stroller. A middle-aged businessman. Two teenage girls, giggling to each other about something, and one leaning over to whisper a secret into her best friend’s ear. 

John Watson frowned and then glanced back at Sherlock, who was chewing the last biscuit. 

“I think I have a better suggestion,” he said, slowly beginning to smile. 

***

It was the early afternoon. Sherlock flipped up his violin bow, glanced at the skull on the fireplace, and then frowned lightly. That noise…

The front door opened.

Oh, of course. Mycroft must have finally switched cars. It was a little earlier than usual this year. There must have been a model on the market he really liked. He usually didn’t push these things; they were always on time. 

He raised his violin again, beginning to play and pointedly ignoring his brother’s entrance until the man started to talk, attempting to bust up the volume of his voice to be louder than that of the instrument.

“The answer,” Sherlock said, pausing his notes, “is no.”

Mycroft’s face screwed up into an unhappy frown. He’d had that face since childhood. Sherlock’s dislike of his face had not changed marginally since that time, either. “The documents I emailed you…” he began.

“No,” Sherlock repeated, and put the bow to the strings again. “Must have been sorted into my spam folder, so sorry, can’t talk,” he said, and began to play again.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Where John?” he yelled over the building fortissimo. 

“Showering,” Sherlock quipped happily, pausing. “He won’t help you either.”

“He’s proven to be more useful than you more than enough times, so I think that assumption is rather poor,” the older man muttered.

“He’s going to be taking a nap, so your own assumption holds no ground,” Sherlock quipped back. “We’ve had a long night, and rest is in order.” He flipped the bow up into the air cheerfully and caught it again. 

“A long night of what?” Mycroft snorted. ”You haven’t had a case in a week, don’t lie just to get on my nerves. It is so very pathetic that you even attempt such a low method of avoidance.”

“I would gladly tell you, but considering that the matter is rather private to both of us, and considering that John isn’t present to give his permission for me to disclose all the facts to you, I’ll keep it to myself,” Sherlock replied. He pulled the violin up again and, trying his best not to look at the transformation on Mycroft’s face, began the piece all over again. Halfway through the movement, John appeared, a fresh shirt thrown over his shoulders and his hair still damp. Mycroft turned his head to look at him, and immediately, his head began to tilt and his eyes began to widen. Sherlock released a bright grin, flashing his teeth at John, who, thankfully, kept himself more composed. 

“Need help with something?” he asked, finishing buttoning up his shirt – but not before Mycroft caught sight of the bruise-mark at the nape of his neck. 

“…no,” Mycroft muttered, whipping his head around back to Sherlock. Then he looked back at John, as if only now remembering. “…yes.”

“I hope it doesn’t involve a lot of walking,” the doctor replied, chuckling and winking at Sherlock. 

Sherlock formed a sympathetic face. “Oh no, you shouldn’t. Just stay home – lay down.”

“Mind if I use your bed?” John asked. “Mine’s still a bit of a…” He paused and coughed awkwardly. “…a mess from last night.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll throw the sheets in the wash.”

“Thanks,” John nodded, and passed by Mycroft, nodding to him before disappearing into Sherlock’s room, shutting the door. 

Mycroft’s eyes were bigger than ever. If Sherlock was partial to hyperboles, he might say that he could see his own reflection in them. 

“You did not.” 

His tone was big as well – louder than Sherlock would normally assign to him, indicating shock. Which was the perfect reaction – except that it made it harder to act normal. 

“I did not what?” he asked, smiling up at his brother. 

“You and John…” Mycroft muttered, narrowing his eyes. “You did not.”

“Did not what?” Sherlock asked, his smile now betraying some triumph. “Had sex? Well, yes, that is the case. But that’s private matters, Mycroft, and really, you have no right to stick your nose into my private business. This isn’t just a shag, this is a relationship, and if you’re going to go about making things difficult for John because of it, I might be more than a little upset. Of course… you wouldn’t understand that, would you… but that’s quite alright. I don’t expect you to know something you’ve never had experience with.” Sherlock closed his eyes and turned away. His bow fell back to the strings. He drew out a few lines from The Titanic’s main theme and then smiled. “Good day, Mycroft.”

At first there was nothing but angry breathing. Then, finally, Mycroft muttered something half-polite in reply. His shoes squeaked as he turned on his heels and then clicked down the staircase. The front door opened and shut again. The car hummed away from the curb.

After a few beats, Sherlock’s bedroom door opened again and John stuck his head out. “Is he gone?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Did he buy it?” John asked, stepping out.

Sherlock looked over at him, smiled wider, and began to chuckle. “Yes, he did.”

John whooped loudly and came over, raising his hand for a high five. Sherlock raised his palm to meet him, albeit with contained enthusiasm. “Perfect! I admit, I thought I was gonna blow my cover any second – you should have seen the look on his face!”

“Oh, I did!” Sherlock told him, still grinning. “I have memorized it perfectly and stored it into the reserves of my mind, so that if I am ever less than satisfied with my day, I may glance upon it in my memory again and feel completely jubilant.” He chuckled to himself one more time. “That was swell, John, you did wonderfully.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t bad yourself,” John said, falling back into his desk. “I think we’ve taken care of your problem for a good while.”

“I certainly hope so.” Sherlock clicked his tongue a bit, mulling over it. “Although I think we might have to keep up appearances at this rate, lest he get suspicious. Making the bruise… hickey… whatever it was called… look believable was difficult enough. Next time he’ll be watching more carefully.” 

“We’ll just keep playing the game, then.” John said, cracking his knuckles and flipping open his laptop. “I’m sure that with a bit of research we can find plenty of imaginative scenarios to entertain his mind with.”

“And where do you plan to find the scripts for those encounters?” Sherlock inquired, glancing at his flat-mate with some level of curiosity. “Neither of us actually have any experience with other males… and even if we can play one round of let’s-not-and-say-we-did doesn’t mean we can come up with an entire month of imaginary sex-life… Or more…” He hummed. “We need to research.”

“I’m one step ahead of you. I have the motherload, as a matter of fact,” John replied. His hands were already on the keyboard. “A bible of sexual escapades to keep our ideas fresh and Mycroft on his toes.”

“And where do you plan to get that?” the Consulting Detective asked, frowning in disbelief. 

John smiled and leaned back to show Sherlock the screen.

“Just a little website called fanfiction.com”


End file.
